


Remember the Tale of the Ghost on the Shore

by hedgerowhag



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 10th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Obsession, Unintentionally Macbeth Inspired, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heathen mercenary and a prince have found themselves in an intimate relationship that cannot last beyond the chaos of war. Of this they are both aware and yet lingering reluctance drives to obsession.</p><p>--</p><p>“Do you understand why I must end what has begun?” Hux asks, taking his hands out of the grip and tilting Kylo’s chin to make him look up. </p><p>“Yes,” Kylo whispers. “I understand.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember the Tale of the Ghost on the Shore

**Author's Note:**

> alright, so this has been sitting around on my desktop for a really long time and honestly i wrote it for myself, but i hope people will enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. the title is from 'ghost on the shore' by lord huron
> 
> as the tags say, this was unintentionally inspired by macbeth (the 2015 movie), both in terms of the plot trajectory and the aesthetics. because of this i think it's pretty easy to guess what will happen in the fic so i decided to avoid using some specific tags
> 
> anyway, at last people can see where the ['Down to Your Grave'](https://archiveofourown.org/series/466300) series was bumped off from. just a heads up that in no way are they connected, the two stories are completely separate

As the fog crawls on the mire, on the edge of battle, beyond the senseless thrash of iron, skin and bone, stand two men.

One is wounded, for his guts have been pierced and his life saps. The other holds his sight, sword clutched in both hands – stained by the copper of spilled blood. This stranger, clothed in black, is he of man or beast… it is difficult to say; a shroud covers his face, shoulders heave under a ring-mail shirt and blackened leathers. He seems more giant than a woman-born child.

“For what purpose do you commit this treachery?” asks the wounded man in the tongue of the northmen.

The shrouded warrior says nothing as he approaches and hoists aloft the sword. The other does not waver though fear strikes his face; his fate is already certain.

“Speak you monster!” the dead man cries.

For a moment, the cloaked one falters and looks down at his victim. But it does not last long as he swings the sword and says as thus: “For love.”

 

 

\-   *   -

 

 

With the taste of wine and laughter on his tongue Hux pushes into the chamber, cursing when the drink spills from the jug that he carries – he had snatched the wine from the table when he left the feasting hall, bidding his father a fine evening. The cup that he holds has remained empty and unused.

“Let’s speak no more of war again,” says Hux as the dark mercenary follows him in. “It has passed; we will do well to forget it.”

“No, no more,” agrees Kylo, closing the door. His Norse tongue thickens the English speech though for many years he has lived on the shores of Wessex – away from his homeland in the north.

Hux had been the one to teach Kylo the speech, though much of the language he had gathered himself. Perhaps the reason for the awkwardness of tongue was Kylo’s insistence to speak to his followers in their own speech. Those six mercenaries that follow Kylo at his heels on the battlefield still unnerve Hux though there is peace between them.

“I do believe that we have other things to discuss,” Hux grins over the rim of the brass jug as he stumbles through the quarters on alcohol dumbed legs.

The heathen mercenary smiles at him as he trails after, catching Hux when he wavers – almost falling.

Laughing, Hux sets aside the wine and the chalice and walks into Kylo’s arms, allowing the heat of the northman’s body to brand him. Hux cups Kylo’s jaw and traces plumb lips with his thumb as hands settle about his hips. Kylo is smiling down at him, shy at the drunken audacity in Hux’s actions and blushing like a milk-toothed youth in spite of all that he is.

“On our final night together,” whispers Hux, “let us speak of us and only us.”

The smile falls slack and the arms feel cold.

“Oh what is it now?” Hux brushes his hand over Kylo’s pale cheek and into his dark, braid tangled hair. “Have we not spoken of this?”

Kylo takes Hux’s wrist, but instead of pushing him away, he presses it closer against his cheek, closing his eyes and sighing against the touch. “Yes, we have. Yet I still do not understand why because the victory has been gained we should destroy what we have built.”

Hux groans, but complies. “Then I will tell you again and again, until you decide to understand: though you have won countless battles for my father, he is not fond of you and he wishes to get rid of you for you are a northman – of the same blood as the invading hordes.” Hux twists his lips distastefully. “But! I intend to grant the title of thane onto you so that none can question your worth.”

“But I don’t—.”

Hux hushes Kylo with a touch of a finger to the lips. “My father will not be able to deny you the honour and he will favour my opinion. However, I cannot show you favour from then on,” Hux explains. “It is due for me as the crown prince to be just and dutiful. This means I cannot share time to hide my love for a particular heathen,” smiles Hux, leaning up and pressing a kiss to Kylo’s reluctant lips. “For the victory you brought us against the Danes I give you the gift of basking in eternal glory.”

Gathering Hux’s hands in his own Kylo frowns, chewing his lip as he considers the words.

“Do you understand why I must end what has begun?” Hux asks, taking his hands out of the grip and tilting Kylo’s chin to make him look up.

“Yes,” Kylo whispers. “I understand.”

“Good.” And then Hux pulls down Kylo by the collar of his tunic and kisses him forcefully, pushing the foul thoughts out of the mercenary’s mind.

Kylo complies, but as they come stumbling to the bed in the glow of the hearth, he pulls away and says “We can’t let the wine go to waste.” And then a cup of red is pressed into Hux’s hand, pushed towards his lips.

Hux can’t help but comply, draining the cup. Once the swollen, brass belly is empty, it is quickly refilled and refilled until Hux’s mind is swimming and his limbs hardly respond.

Growing impatient of Kylo’s dithering, Hux throws the half-filled cup across the room and pulls the man to himself, tearing clothing and forcing him down onto the bed. Kylo is pliant under Hux’s violent hands, offering his body to the prince.

“We speak of nothing but each other tonight,” says Hux as he straddles the heathen beneath him.

“Nothing but us,” Kylo agrees and then he surges up, taking Hux with him down onto the bed as laughter fills the room.

 

*

 

Then night breeze is cool against Hux’s skin, licking it like the tongues of hounds. Hux shivers and turns under the covers, feeling the tack of the sweat chafe his bruised thighs.

Outside, the sea hushes as if willing away his consciousness. There is a sour taste on his tongue from the wine and Hux regrets spilling it to the floor, though he fondly reminisces how pretty it looked when he poured the remaining dregs over Kylo’s pale skin.

If this must be their last night together, Hux will accept it. Though he wishes there would someday be more; there is a certain exhilaration in the taming of the wild, fierce northman that came to lie under his touch like a kicked wolf cub.

Hux will always keep pride in his power over the mercenary, always be in awe of the tenderness he had brought out in the Godless creature.

Slowly, Hux reaches across the large bed, feeling the linen beneath his fingers.

The dip in the mattress is cold, absent.

Eyes wide, Hux stares across the bed. It has not been unusual that Kylo would leave amidst the night, but as Hux looks into the darkened room, he sees the scabbard of the longsword standing against the hearth. The black cloak is splayed across the floor – untouched.

The last ember of the fire flickers and dims amidst the ashes, becoming lost in the dark.   

A cold lock of dread lodges in Hux’s throat though he knows he has nothing to fear; Kylo is an odd creature, known to his attendants as the scowling shadow that scarcely speaks in the tongue of man. He often wanders about his mysterious business, but he always returns to kneel at the prince’s feet – like an obedient dog.

But perhaps today, the cold is deeper than the chill of a grave.

Gathering from the bed, Hux redresses himself in disarray, losing himself in the tangles of clothes.

Out into the hallway Hux wanders, shivering against the chill of the darkened fortress. Footsteps echo as he quickly strikes across the flagstones, taking sharp turns to make the quickest path to the halls of the eastern castle wing – where quarters for Kylo Ren and his warriors have been given.

Passing deeper through the corridors, Hux enters the halls that occupy the warriors of his father’s court. Many of the men are old and withered, but the King prizes them for their experience and advice – who else would he put his trust in.

A sound escapes from a room through the cracks of the door, sharp in the silence of the night.

Something muffled reaches Hux, like a gurgle or perhaps a cry.

It is not of Hux’s concern what these people do in the privacy of their rooms. And yet, something makes him reach out for the door and push against its abused lock.

Inside, there is no light to see by but the face of the moon that peers in.

There, on the bed, a dark figure hunches over the tousled knots of the covers.

It shifts, drawing apart and leaning away. Hux sees something dislodge with a slick sound from the indistinguishable lumps on the mattress.

A dagger appears in the moonlight.

The figure retracts from the bed and stands away. There is a click and clack of metal. Heavy boots stepping across the stone.

A breath of a foreign word.

Hux reels from the room, stumbling into the corridor. And then, he runs; without a weapon he is defenceless and doesn’t bear to be ashamed as he calls for the guards.

His father’s quarters are but a stretch of a corridor away and he fears the worst.

Taking a single turn, Hux sees the room ahead and clutches onto the iron handle, yanking it against the lock.

The door flings outwards and a figure of black stands in his path. For a moment, there is relief when he sees the confused pale face of Kylo.

“You should be asleep,” the northman mutters, his large frame rising in the doorway.

In the escaping beams of moonlight, a shaft of silver catches the glow.

It is a blade, clutched in the fist of the dark man.

On the dagger’s edge, Hux sees red.

“What have you done?” breathes Hux, uncaring of the man as he pushes past him into the room.

At the first glance, all seems calm: There is darkness and silence, the shadows waver in the dying candlelight. Ahead, Hux sees his father’s bed, the slumped shape amongst the covers.

But as he approaches he sees unnatural shadows on the white linen. His father’s shape is splayed out, the arms open wide as if in an embrace.

Hux halts.

There is broken cloth and ruptured skin. Blood gushing as bone peers from beneath.

Eyes staring, but unseeing.

Hux stumbles away, moaning like a wounded animal as he clutches to cover his mouth.

In the doorway, Kylo’s impossible figure still stands, unshaken as a fist collides with his chest.

“What have you done?” Hux cries out, continuing his assault of fists and clawing hands until the dagger clatters to the floor and hands capture his wrists – halting him with force.

The heathen looks down on him with what seems to be pity. When a kiss is forced down onto him, Hux chokes and struggles, crying in anger, but the press continues, the grip on his wrists unyielding.

“No one will keep us apart now,” Kylo says in the scarce, suffocating space between them.

Hux pales, staring at the man with disbelief. “You are insane,” he whispers. And then once more, “You are insane!” he cries, tearing his hands out of the grip, escaping from the heathen’s shadow.

Suddenly, his path is halted for in the hallway, beneath the pale moonlight, stand six dark figures. The light catches on their clothing and Hux sees the wet stains painted across their hands.

“You are insane,” whispers Hux for the final time as the thundering run of the guards approaches.

 

*

 

The King of England and all his warriors and advisors were slaughtered by the heathen mercenaries. They were captured and brought into the cells bellow the castle, into the ground where no light or clean air can reach - as the people of their kind should be.

The King and his nobles were mourned and buried, bound in the riches of their mortal lives.

Alas, the moment passed and the new reign begins.

 

*

 

Hux stands on the low hills beneath the battlements, staring down onto the flat grass planes that falter before collapsing to the sea where the white waves lap in the murk of the setting fog.

Just on the edge of that border, seven wooden mounds are being built each with a pole at the centre. Soon they will be complete and justice will be brought.

The prisoners have been locked away beneath the earth since the day of their capture, Hux has made no attempt of giving them a trial; their actions are unforgivable and unjustifiable.

For this very reasoning, as Hux approaches the mounds to watch the tar spill onto the firewood, he feels nothing but satisfaction. He had no part in this madness, it had all been the act of jealous, Godless man.

“My Lord?”

Glancing up, Hux sees the tall warrior standing beside him, her scarlet cloak and pale hair caught in the ocean wind.

“Phasma, is there trouble?” he asks. It had been through Hux’s favour that the woman was brought into light after he caught her in the game of changing faces in order join the ranks of the army that marched against the invading forces. From then on, in friendship they forged their strength.

“No, all is calm,” Phasma replies.

“Then why are you here?” demands Hux.

Eyes downcast, she steps closer to him. “I was wondering if perhaps I could speak to you, as a friend.”

Hux frowns at the request, but nods. “If you must.”

The startling blue eyes glance down onto the prince. “I understand your sentimentality towards Kylo Ran,” says Phasma, “and I sympathise with your reluctance to go through with the execution.”

At those words Hux grimaces, baring his teeth. He looks to the mounds, watching the thick tar lap over heaps of the pyres. “I have no sentimentality for the heathen or his followers; he committed treason by killing my father and his trusted men,” Hux spits. “He betrayed our cause.”

The pale warrior sighs, untouched by the biting heat of the prince’s words. “I know that you once cared for him.” Hux turns to her, about to argue, but Phasma’s words stifle his own. “You are the sole authority in this land,” she says. “You can send him to exile, you can give him life imprisonment. Please, think before you do what you will come to regret.”

Hux considers the warrior, her pale sad eyes watching him. “Have you ever known me to make decisions driven by my personal feelings?” he asks, not allowing her to answer. “Have you ever known me to be regret anything that I had done for the better of my kingdom?”

It seems that Phasma is about to form a reply but her mouth remains in a hard set line.

“Never speak to me in such a way again, I will not tolerate it,” coldly cautions the prince.

By the battlements there is a sound of marching feet. The warrior and the prince turn to watch the procession of guards through the grass lands. They walk in flanks around the seven bound prisoners who become hidden by the armoured shoulders and helmed heads. There are spectators crowded about them, whispering as they see the treacherous mercenaries.

“Consider my words,” Phasma murmurs before stepping away from his stand, lowering her eyes, hands clasped behind her back.

In the absence of their dark robes and heaving mounds of leather and armour, the heathens appear like starved animals: all bones and stretched grey skin, wild eyes watching the pressing crowds.

And yet... They do not struggle as they taken the line of the pyres. They do not try to escape as they are bound to the stakes amidst the tar soaked timber. They do not try to show their spite. For all that the heathens are known, they seem like beaten hounds, submitting to the feet of their masters.  

At the centre of the line, stands Kylo. His head is bowed, back resting against the timber as if it were he cannot stand on his own.

It is a sign of weakness to be tempted by personal need, Hux knows this, but he does not resist walking from his position to where Kylo is bound. He disregards the catching stares of the gathered for the sake of focusing on the condemned man.

They are face to face and yet Kylo does not raise his eyes, staring to the ground as if death has already taken him. His shrouds of black have been ripped away, leaving him the clothing of the common man. Like this, he does not appear the berserking beast of the battle field, but a mortal of flesh and bone and Hux has to bite away the urge to gather him in his cloak.

“I did not want this,” Hux speaks in the northman’s tongue. Kylo spares no word in return – not even a flinch. “I am not responsible for what will happen to you; you called this on yourself,” Hux tries again, words boiling with spite.

Still, Kylo remains silent and in a moment of slackened restraint, Hux reaches up and brushes his knuckles against the pale jaw – to yield something, to gain at least a syllable to perhaps reaffirm those words.

Dark eyes meet his own, an unbridled fire of betrayal and rage bound under the surface.

“I did it for us,” whispers Kylo, jaw working under Hux’s touch. “We were meant to rule together, I saw it.”

Hux flinches back, scowling. “It was your vision, not mine.” And then once more: “You called this on yourself, I did not want this.”

The crown prince turns and walks away from the pyre, leaving behind the northman who, unnoticed to the gathered, is smiling.

A signal is given and forth walk the guards, holding torches that are thrown to the seven pyres. Smoke blooms and rises into the air as tar crackles and spits, the flames picking up in the piles of timber, climbing further up and up, to the soft waiting flesh.

It is the smoke that is the first to claim the prize: It clambers inside the lungs of the victims, filling it with the grey and white billows, pumping the chest full until there is no space for the air. The eyes will tear and the throat will ache. Coughing and coughing, the body will fail.

Hux sees the first one lose their consciousness, falling limp against their stand, mouth agape. Then, the others follow.

But Kylo… Kylo remains awake, staring ahead at the Hux through the thick veils of white, glowing in the tongues of orange and yellow that lick the skin that he once kissed.

Eyes caught by the dark stare, Hux blames it on the smoke when tears pool.

Finally, _blessedly_ , the consciousness is stolen from Kylo’s body and he falls back as if in ecstasy.

Once, Kylo proclaimed that his warriors have no fear of death and Hux argued that “would they not miss the pleasures of mortal life? Surely they do not wish to give up the pleasure that yielded by a material existence.” But at this Kylo only smirked and whispered as thus: “All that they loved or held dear is gone with the ash and remains in waiting with their forbearers. So why should they want to linger here where nothing is to be desired.”

That memory seems at place as Hux watches the cloth burn away, charred, revealing beneath the sweet white skin that melts with the licks of the fire. Those strong legs that he kissed, the pale chest that he clawed, the arms that held him cradled.

That face that he held and the lips that he kissed.

All stolen by the fire.

 

Hux remains at his vigil until the sky clears and seven charred bodies lie before him in the smoking ashes of the pyres. He prays that they will find solace in their death and perhaps… the fires have cleansed their blasphemous souls.

He departs when there is nothing but the ashes left to the wind to gather.

 

*

 

By several weeks the coronation is delayed – a sign of respect for the mourned King in the respite of silence after the war against the Danes. But the day finally comes and Hux cannot resist it any more. He will be King of unified England, the first of his name to rule the land without knowledge of its divided history.

He is ready to bear this sentence.

Thus, he kneels before the throne as the Bishop stands over him, the crown held in his hands. There is an odd sense of displacement, numbness, and Hux would have lost himself in the sinking daze if it was not for the sensation of cold metal pressing against his head. It weighs nothing to him, as if one misplaced hair, for he is so gone from his own mind.

It is a haze, the standing before the crowds, swimming in a murky pool of memory and the present. Hux will wonder later on how he did not collapse amidst the ceremony, perhaps it is only his pride that keeps him standing.

In a moment of brief clarity, Hux looks about the room, catching the staring faces below the dais. In the spilling light, the hall, filled with innumerable faces, seems too empty for his liking.

 

A feast in the name of the new King. Let there be boar, let there be stag, pheasant and rabbit. Let not for a moment a cup be dry and a plate be empty. Again and again cups are raised in the name of the new King until none can speak without laughter.

The young man is not without his own merriment as he watches the speeches from behind the rim of his wine cup, smirking into the drink as the guests begin to stutter.

“In the name of new beginnings and new bonds that arise as we stand stronger,” someone proclaims as they hold their cup aloft, calling for a toast amongst the guests. They cheer in return.

_To Death and false hope of peace, to the Dead and their children that will come to bear their blades._

At last, game and song drift into the hall and the King is left to his peace. To the food and drink he averts his attention, allowing his senses to be numbed and emptiness filled where once warmth dwelled, burning like a smith’s furnace.

Hux raises his cup and drinks heavily, feeling the drops slip down from the corners of his lips and down his chin.

Copper floods his mouth. Thick and cloying in his throat.

The smell too sweet, too pungent.

It makes Hux choke and chest seize.

Looking down into the cup, he sees the red swirl and slosh, the froth of bubbles running the circle of the brass belly.

Far too thick, far too dark to be wine.

A shadow falls over Hux; the attendants have brought another platter of meat: a full carcass for display. Licking away the slick trails on his lips, Hux watches them as the dish is placed on the table of boisterous Lords and Ladies.

They make a show of it as they sharpen the knife, raising it to catch the light. With great ceremony they lower it and press it into the charred, blackened flesh. The bones are too fragile and crack, black black black. They break away the ribs and come to the spine which splinters beneath the silver.

Into the joint of the shoulder they press the blade, breaking away the outstretched hand.

The Lords and Ladies, they laugh and they laugh and they laugh with their blood reddened lips as the attendants break the neck and present the gaping, charred human head – begging begging. It _burns_ , the fire, it _burns_.

Hux abruptly stands, halting the feast with the screech of his chair against stone.

He does not look up as he rounds the tables and leaves the hall, the doors clattering behind him.

 

*

 

Onto yet another day the feasting sprawls. Drink after drink after drink is downed by parched throats. More food is brought, game captured by the huntsmen that very morning. But Hux touches nothing but the sweetmeats and his lips remain dry.

In this fashion the feast continues and not once do the apparitions came to stifle Hux’s mind. In peace he sits at his table and watches his people gorge themselves on the plenty.

In the crawling closure of the night, Hux catches the eye of a young soldier sat away with the battle honoured. He is handsome like many other and smiles when he sees the King watch him, expression hungered and unrestrained.

As the guests away to their own rooms, Hux lingers and calls to the warrior, beckoning him to follow.

Willingly the young solider comes to the quarters of the King, allowing himself to be pulled through the door as wanting hands tug at his clothes.

Hands to heated skin in pools of sweat, lips and teeth to the bruises.

The young soldier is above him, drawing the pleasure from Hux’s tired body as he lies in mercy. Into his willing flesh he wants to draw the man, to push out memory of any other and with his wanton sounds to banish any other sound of pleasure.

Between his thighs he welcomes the man as moonlight pools in the room, cold and dim as heat draws between them.

Hux closes his eyes and allows his head to fall back, sighing as the soldier tastes his flesh.

But then, a smell: wood smoke, iron and copper, mud and the heavy stench of tar.

Eyes wide, Hux stares ahead.

Above, moonlight plunders the ceiling of the room that is filled with sounds of skin touching skin.

Looking from the moonlight, Hux sees the figure bent over him. He reaches out, to touch the spools of hair. But before he can feel, the man raises his head and towers above Hux. Broader and taller, his stature seems to have grown. His hair touches his shoulders and it is not struck white as blond locks should be when light touches them for they have become dark.

Wood smoke and blood.

Charred skin. Flaying iron.

The smell of battle. Of war.

He knows this shape, these shoulders and these hands.

Hux pushes away, but the hands do not allow him. Pulling him closer and closer.

He does not want these sweet lips. He does not want these sweet touches. He banished them with the fire.

“Away! Away!” Hux cries, pushing from out of reach.

Suddenly, the image falls apart and he sees the soldier that he pulled after him.

“Leave me be,” whispers Hux, bearing his teeth.

Confused. Afraid. The soldier flees from his room and the coldness draws.

When Hux looks to the side, he sees the longsword standing against the wall. Silver in the moonlight.

“Away, Away,” whispers Hux against his knees in the darkness.

 

*

 

On the day that follows, there is yet another feast. “To the King! To the King!”

Yet Hux does not attend.

As the twilight falls, he stands at the south facing window of his quarters. The shutters open, the wind stealing inside.

He has become pale, weak, but still he stands unshaken in the breaking torrent of a rising storm, watching as the white crested waves rise in the fallen murk of the night. There isn’t a single trespasser on the planes; all have been called inside.

But there is no peace for Hux tonight; the phantoms have grown in his mind.

Sweet skin, pale limbs. Melting melting melting.

Gone.

He will have no peace but it is not his guilt that drives him – he is certain.

Resting his head against the crossed arms on the sill of the window, Hux feels the wind carding through his hair like hands. He breathes in that cold air that floods through his lungs.

No fire. No heat.

Only the ocean salt and the cold wind.

Breathe. Breathe.

Hux pushes away from the sill and stares ahead at the flat planes of the grasslands that gather around the fortress.

There is no place for fire amidst the storm. No, no place at all.

Into silence his mind drifts but as he looks to the shores, he sees a figure in white on the cliff edge. Standing, wavering as the torrents plucks at it.

Hux curses as he watches it, flickering in the wind like a dove with a broken wing. Having called everyone to remain in the walls of the battlements until the wind calms and the sea settles, he expects the guard will see the stranded figure and escort them within the walls.

But as the wind picks up strength and the waves lash against the cliff shores, Hux sees no aid be offered.

Out from his quarters the King stalks, driven by some maddened urge as he wraps his cloak about his shoulders. There is not a hush of a passing soul as Hux sweeps through the corridors, to the courtyard where the rain pounds and leaves him soaked in moments and out of the western gate.

Through the rain flooded mire of the fields he marches, to the cliff edge, where the white figure stands in the face of the tempest.

“Seize your madness and return to the safety of the walls!” Hux calls, blinded by the rain that pushes against him.

“What madness do you speak of?”

Oh, that voice. That wretched, sweet voice.

Hux lifts away his hood and holds against the torrent, looking ahead at the pale figure standing on the charred ring of the long gone pyre where by some misbegotten miracle the ashes linger.

“My Lord? Will you not answer me?” asks Kylo, standing bowed against the rain, appearing not a day changed since the morn of the burning.

“Away you spirit!” cries Hux, reeling when pale arms outstretch to him. “Why must you haunt my every step!”

Kylo looks at him confused, dark eyes hurt and lips frowning. “It is not I who haunts you; you call me back, again and again. So I return,” he says, “by your command.”

Confusion, terror, all seems one image in Hux’s mind as he stares at the pale phantom who has haunted his nights. He does not know if he wants to kiss that sweet face or damn him into the arms of death once more.

“Away with you! Away with you!” commands Hux as he charges towards the ghost of a shape he despises. “Away!” In fear Kylo watches as a blade becomes unsheathed, its point imminent to pierce him.

And yet, as Hux approaches in his cold rage, raising the dagger to slash against the phantom, Kylo’s image is swept by the wind only to break against Hux as rain.

Hux shields his eyes against the storm, dropping the dagger. When he looks back to the cliff edge he finds it empty.

Somebody is calling his name, the voice enraged and Hux knows its owner. Turning from the edge, he sees a group of guards close around him, led by Phasma who seems to bear more anger than the storm.

“You fool!” she shouts. “Who do you wish to accomplish by being here? Your death?” the warrior barks as she takes him by the arm.

Hux breaks away from Phasma’s grip. “Do not dare to touch in such a way!” he sneers, but the soldier takes him anyway and pushes towards the battlements in the march of the guards.

Once inside the walls, Hux spits his curses and tears away from the soldiers, storming through the halls of the fortress, seeking silence of the walls.

Up up, to his rooms he wanders as the attendants flee from his path, to the safety of the shadows.

Behind the closed doors, his rage spills.

Taking up the blade that stands beside the hearth, Hux brings down its fury until sparks fly from stone. Again and again and again he lashes it until there is no more will of rage inside his body or mind and Hux falls amongst the rubble.

The blade is still held in his hands, aloft in both palms. In that silver, his tired reflection stares back – eyes pale and skin ashen.

“Why,” Hux whimpers. “Why must you torment me so.” Bowing, he presses his brow against the cool metal.

A touch.

A soft press against his shoulder.

“It pains you.”

Yes.

“You wish for this to end.”

_Yes._

And even softer now: a kiss, against his neck and ear, an arm around his shoulders.

“Then take my sword and go gather my remains. Then off to the forest, you will know where to go.”

A whisper. So soft it can almost be mistaken for the hush of a breeze on the grass.

When Hux rises, he is alone.

Taking the black cloak that remains scattered on the floor, he binds it around his shoulders and takes up the scabbard and sheaths the sword, strapping it across his back. Out, out from the room he walks, down through the halls and into the courtyard.

From the stables he takes a horse and saddles it. Out through the gates they go and onto the grasslands where the wind begins to calm as the darkness draws.

At the pyre circle where his phantom stood, Hux dismounts and kneels on the charred ground. Into the black earth his buries his hands, clutching the rain softened soil where he feels the hard ridges of bone. This he gathers and places inside a tarp sack in which he binds them and ties to the saddle of his horse.

Beckoning on the reluctant animal, Hux rides out across the grasslands through the darkness of the night.

Hours pass and the moorlands recede as the storm clouds ebb away with the calming of the gusts. Away the empty planes fall, giving ground to the rise of the wind bowed pines. Further and further he goes as the first of the dawn begins to spill through the canopies in blooms of crimson.

In amongst the straight-backed red giants he goes, where the lingering ocean breeze whispers and beckons. The light of the morn floods inside the forest and flickers through the tall, naked bodies of the trees, glimmering like a trance.

Further and further he goes into the depths of the trees through the thickets of the ferns where the brooks bind their way through the ground.

Further and further, away from the sound of man.

Further and further, where the golden light spills.

Further and further, until there is no sound.

Further and further–

 

 

The wanderer halts in the midst of the crooked birches where the black waters of the bogs creep across the mosses and glisten in the spill of the morning light.

Hux dismounts and takes up the bound remains, holding them tightly in his hand. Into the swamp he walks, the water pooling to his ankles and sinking deeper to his knees as he strides amongst the thick rooted birches tangled in brambles.

Amidst the trees, where the waters meet, there is an island of moss where shrubs sprawl about the edges, shrouding the broken stumps of fallen trees. It is hidden from the sun by the canopies of the birches, allowing only the small jewels of light to fall through.

There Hux comes to stand as water drips from his drenched clothing. He unties the tarp sack from his belt and places it at the centre. Five paces back he takes to the edge of the island, and falls to his knees.

With numbed hands Hux removes the sword from his back and places it across his lap. With the cloak untied the weather beaten fabric is flung aside.  

The forest is silent but for the faint gurgle of water some distance away and the calls of birds as they scamper through the foliage. The breeze is all too faint but it brushes through the leaves, tousling the branches in its wake.

The sun is warm on his shoulders as Hux bows, pressing his forehead to the scabbard – all too worn to wonder what brought him to these depths where no man has ever walked.

 

The day is at its full wake when Hux raises his eyes once more, sitting on his haunches at the edge of the island amidst the pools.

Sighing, he looks about himself, seeing the sunlight scamper across the water, some animal trampling through the shrubs. The horse is heard not so far away; it must have wandered about as it fed, refusing to leave the forest.

Hux turns back to the offering that he brought to the forest, deciding to perhaps make use of the moment and set the ashes free.

As Hux looks to the top of the moss mound and reaches for the tarp, he sees at the other edge of the island the kneeling reflection of a familiar phantom.

“You found your way,” says Kylo in the English tongue. His pale skin is struck aglow by the seeping sunlight, his eyes dark and warm. He smiles with those sweet, accursed lips.

“Yes, my course was true,” Hux says, and he is not afraid.

“I did not think you would do it.”

“You asked me to.”

Kylo smiles, averting his eyes. Then, he wordlessly stands and walks across the mound, past the bound sack of charred bones, towards where Hux rests. He offers his hands to the kneeling man and Hux takes them into his own, finding the palms warm. The sword falls away as he rises and comes to stand before Kylo, face to face, space between them scarce.

They look to each other as they once did, at the end of battle when the fields have been coloured red, not quite believing the truth. Every detail of Kylo’s features Hux traces, remembering that which the fire stole: the length of his braided black hair which curls by his shoulders, his pale skin speckled with freckles, the soft lips that are made for smiling, and those eyes that speak of warmth.

Kylo is the first to break the stillness as he slips his hands over Hux’s hips and leans towards him, lingering in the silver of air between them before pressing his lips to Hux’s.

The other responds instantly, wrapping his arms around Kylo’s shoulders, pressing into the touch as Kylo gathers him by the waist. Through that dark hair Hux runs his fingers, twisting the locks as he sobs into the kiss.

They halt and pull apart, looking at each other before Kylo takes Hux’s jaw into his palms and kisses his cheeks, his chin, his nose, his brow, his eyelids and then his lips once more, licking them apart and gently biting down.

“I missed you,” Kylo whispers.

“And I you,” replies Hux, chasing the kiss.

Kylo smiles again, as if taking in this fragile moment before pulling Hux close and pressing in against his neck and sighing into his skin.

“Perhaps…” mutters Hux, tentatively returning the embrace, “I should say, though I have no right, that I am sorry.” Kylo pulls away, looking at the red-haired man in his hold.

“I am truly and deeply sorry and I beg for your forgiveness,” Hux continues. “Though I have no right to ask for such.” His face holds a bitter look and pale eyes are averted to the water that surrounds them, afraid to glance up. “Even if all that has happened was not due to pass, I do not know how could I live – seeing you but unable to touch.”

Something softens in Kylo’s expression as he cups Hux’s jaw and brushes his thumbs over the cheeks, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow. “Will you leave with me?” he asks, not leaning away.

“What?” Hux gasps breathlessly.

“Come away with me, where we may be together,” Kylo says, looking down into the confused wide eyes, his hands coaxing the pale skin of the other’s face.

He slips from Kylo’s grasp, looking to him with wide confused eyes – a feeling of betrayal spiralling in his mind. “How could you speak of such a thing?” he spits. “My reign has only begun; there is yet so much I must do for my kingdom.”

“But is this not why you came here?” asks Kylo. “To be with me?”

Uncaring of the other and his words, Hux turns and steps from the island into the water that gushes into his boots. “You speak of madness, Kylo,” he barks. “I came here to be left in peace so that I might return to my duty.”

Each step bears more difficulty as Hux’s legs sink deeper into the water until they are taken to the knee. The murk echoes around him in waves, every step like the clatter of shields in the silent wood.

Thus, Hux is unaware when footsteps shadow his own, striking fast through the water until an arms grasp around his chest and neck – locked so tightly he cannot move within them as he kicks against the water, desperately wrestling from the grip that tightens.

“Be gone with you, damned phantom!” Hux cries, clawing at the arms as he feels himself become lifted – dragged from his path.

But the hold does not relent as the water deepens around Hux, welling to his waist until it becomes all too difficult to thrash against the hold.

“Let me go, you monster!” Hux attempts once more, swinging a fist against his attacker – meeting empty air. “Cease your foolish games and be go—.”

In a sudden Hux’s word are cut away as he is plunged into the black water, held down by the hands pressed against his chest and neck. There is only a silver of water between him and the open air and he claws for it, twisting wildly as his legs and arms fly up in the froth of water that seems to boil.

Kylo holds him against such attempts of freedom, waiting for the last heaves of air to escape Hux as hands threaten to bite at his skin.

“I am sorry,” Kylo speaks, struggling against the last lapse of defiance from the smaller body. “But not all I can forgive you.” Enraged eyes stare up at him through the water, burst of air escaping through scowling lips. “Not until you pay the equal price.”

And thus, Kylo pushes Hux deeper into the water.

Finally, those red lips open wide and forth escapes the final clutch of breath. In surges the water, thrusting into the narrow chest, pumping it full until there is no space for air.

Wide eyes stare far ahead through the haze – blind – and Hux moves no more.

“For love I do this,” breathes Kylo as the pressure he holds lessens about the limp body.

Gently, Kylo lifts Hux up from the water, taking him by the waist and legs – the body utterly lax, grown heavy from the sodden clothing. The limp head rests again Kylo’s chest, the eye staring ahead through the soaked strands of copper hair.

Onto the island Kylo returns where he settles Hux on the pillows of moss, closing the unseeing pale eyes with his fingertips, the lips shut against the unheard cry that left them agape.

Taking up the discarded sword and the gathered remains Kylo ties the tarp sack to the hilt, enclosing the ash and the bone tightly. Attaching the sword by the scabbard to his belt, Kylo returns to the body of the drowned man and collects him into his arms.

Back into the water Kylo walks until the depth consumes him, the dark growths of the pools tangling about his legs. He holds Hux aloft, watching the slack features of the pale man as something akin to sadness wells in Kylo’s eyes – or perhaps even guilt.

With gentle hands Kylo lowers Hux into the pool, the water taking the weight as he holds him at the surface with one arm. With the other, he unsheathes the longsword and places it on Hux’s chest, arranging the hands to clasp over the hilt.

Kylo leans above the body of the King, pressing a tender touch to the pale cheeks before gifting a kiss onto the brow, pressing his face to the red hair and breathing in the smell – the body like a rag beneath him, but he still holds the memory of its life.

For a moment too long he lingers in the touch before forcing himself to lean away. His hands slip from beneath the body, allowing the water to well around Hux before collapsing onto him as the surface takes him. Down, down into the black water he falls, the sword an immovable weight that presses onto Hux, carrying him to the green bed of the murk.

Above, Kylo stands in the light of the dawn, showered by the spectres falling through the foliage. He watches the pale features of the dead man disappear, carrying the ash and bone of his own remains, the silver of the sword glinting through the darkness – taken into the impossible darkness not of this plane, somewhere beyond the reach of man.

Above the water Kylo leans until only a silver is left between him and the black well, the ripples touching his lips like kisses.  

“Forever now we may rest together,” Kylo whispers, feeling the water lap with every word.

A long breath he takes that spills from his chest and then in he falls, slipping into the blackness that consumes all from the surface of earth.

A glimpse of Kylo’s hair and his white tunic lingers on the surface as he sinks, further and further into the waters.

Further and further into the deepest wells of sleep.

Further and further until all is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> and then hux beats kylo with a rake in the afterlife
> 
> originally, i wrote that hux willingly goes with kylo but at the last moment i decided that it's very out of character for him
> 
> if anyone has any questions that they would actually like to have answered, please get hold of me on [tumblr](http://beeeeebeeee.tumblr.com/)


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